


Not Alone

by papergardener



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Fluff Off, Dancing, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Imector, Rivera Family - Freeform, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: Two years have passed since Héctor had been reunited with his family. One year since he had first been able to cross over the Marigold Bridge. This year shouldn’t be any different. Except… he can’t cross.At least this time, he won't be alone.





	Not Alone

“Stop, let me go!” the woman shrieked. “I have to cross over! They said I could cross! My family needs me, _let go!_ ”  
   
Imelda watched it all with a chilling horror as the woman finally went limp in the arms of the crossing agents, the sound of her sobs reaching over like the sigh of the wind at night. She turned her head and saw Héctor also staring at the woman, a shadow across his face, his expression too deep to make out.  
   
That had been him only two years before. Desperate to go home, to see his family. For so, so many years.  
   
“Good,” Héctor said softly, apparently to himself. “At least she’s not alone.”  
   
Imelda looked again and saw the woman sobbing into the arms of another, as a man gripped her shoulder and spoke gently. How many times did Héctor have to face that disappointment? Alone?  
   
“Next!”  
   
Imelda jumped at the strong shout from up ahead, and then there were only three people between them and the Marigold Bridge. The rest of the family had already split up into different lines as instructed, and were already on the other side of the gate, waiting for them.  
   
But when she stepped forward, she found Héctor hadn’t followed, but was staring past her at the Bridge, a terrible vulnerability in his gaze. She took his hand making him jump before he gave a faint laugh and a nervous smile.  
   
“Don’t worry,” Imelda said, holding his hand tight. “You crossed last year. We already know that your photo— _our_ photo—is there. It’ll be fine. We’ll be able to go see how our family is doing.”  
   
“Yeah. You’re right,” he said, and his shoulders relaxed, just a little.  
   
_It’ll be fine_.  
   
There was no reason it wouldn’t work. Yet Imelda grew increasingly anxious and didn’t let go of his hand.  
   
It was her turn. It would be fine, yet Imelda kept glancing over at him, standing just feet away, nervously folding and unfolding his hands. There was a safe, familiar “ping!” and she was motioned through.  
   
“Next, _por favor!”_  
   
Héctor stepped up, taking off his hat and standing before the scanner. Imelda couldn’t quite see his face, but could imagine his twitchy grin. There was nothing to worry about, he would definitely-  
   
Red. A brutal, painful sound of refusal.  
   
He couldn’t cross.  
   
The woman behind the scanner was saying something but Imelda didn’t hear her, and it was only Héctor’s arms holding her back, his voice in her ear, that made her not take off her boot and start threatening someone. He couldn’t stop her yelling and cursing at the guard, and that wretched scanner, but she allowed herself to be lead to the side. People were staring, but she didn’t care.  
   
“Imelda—“  
   
“They need to re-scan—“  
   
“Imelda, _calmese—“_  
   
“You have every right to cross over! They can’t do this! I am going to speak to someone who can—“  
   
“Imelda,” Héctor said, holding both arms and standing very close. “It’s okay. It just… it happens sometimes.”  
   
“How are you not upset?” she said, harsher and louder than she intended. Instantly she regretted it as his face tightened. Like she was accusing him of not caring about her, about their family…  
   
“Of course I’m upset,” he said in a low voice. He paused, his eyes flickering a moment, before he shrugged. “But I’ve faced this before.”  
   
_I know_ , she wanted to say, to scream. She wanted to apologize. He couldn’t cross because of her. Her decisions, her attempt to have his memory be destroyed.  
   
“There must be some mistake,” she began, her voice softer, but Héctor shook his head.  
   
“It’s all right. At least I was able to cross once, and that’s more than enough.” He looked towards the bridge, the bright warm color of the marigolds reflecting in his eyes for only a moment before he turned back and smiled at her. “You should get going before the others start to wonder what happened.”  
   
“And leave you?” she said, affronted. “What do you take me for? _Claro que no!”_  
   
“Please.” Héctor took her hand when she made to interrupt. “Please, Imelda. You need to be there for them. And I’ll need you to tell me all about how Miguel is doing, and all of the rest. This is your one night you can go see the rest of your family—your granddaughter, the family you know and love. You should be there. For both of us.”  
   
She bowed her head, holding her mouth close. It wasn’t fair for him to have to say those things. This wasn’t fair. But she did not want to fight. Not with him.  
   
“All right,” she said.  
   
There came a soft pressure on her brow as Héctor kissed her. “Thank you.” He moved back, but had yet to release her hand. “You’ll tell me all about it when you get back, yeah?”  
   
“ _Sí._ Of course. But I still think—“  
   
“It’s all right. You’d best get going before they wonder what happened to us.”  
   
She stepped back and let go, unable to look at him and see the sorrow in his eyes. She had to be strong. When she turned back she saw him standing there, all alone. For a moment she could see the pain in his face, then he smiled and nodded encouragingly, and the pain only lingered in his eyes.  
   
Imelda walked towards her family, keeping her eyes on her boots and watching the petals glow around her. For once she wished she might just sink right through.  
   
“What took so long?” Coco asked, peering around her. “Where’s Papá?”  
   
“He… he isn’t coming with us,” she said in a low voice, and realized she was ashamed for him. “He can’t cross over.”  
   
There were protests and outcries, rapid questions toppling over each other. It was hard convincing her family, but she would honor Héctor’s wishes, and do what was necessary. They relied on her guidance, like always. Once again, she was on her own, and the loneliness settled heavy on her shoulders.  
   
It was a solemn procession as they walked over, the tension relieved only a little when her brothers began to chatter about what they were looking forward to, including seeing Miguel and his little sister, and how the business had been doing, and whether there would be another new song this year. For Imelda, those thoughts only hurt more. Héctor had only had one chance to see his living family—he still barely knew his other granddaughter Elena, much less the younger family, and this would have been his chance to see Miguel again.  
   
They came to the other side and passed through the almost invisible barrier that fully brought them into the world of the Living, all of them faintly glowing and filled with a certain warmth, something like their living bodies had once held.Together they maneuvered through the cemetery of Santa Cecilia, as always brightly lit and full of offerings and candles and souls, living and dead.

A little shadowy flash caught Imelda’s attention, and she looked to a low adobe wall and saw Pepita’s yellow eyes staring fixedly at her. She froze, feeling like she was being judged. The cat eyes narrowed and Imelda wanted to argue that she was doing what she had to for her family. She had to be there for them. For all of them. Pepita’s tail flicked irritably, and she quietly followed the procession of the Rivera family, while Dante took the lead, yapping and eager.  
   
Thus they made their way home—the home that Imelda had built up over her lifetime. The once small, simple home that Héctor and she had moved into as young newlyweds. Imelda lingered, drifting to the back of the group, letting those thoughts fill her mind as they walked along the familiar streets.  
   
At least she could still be there for her family. And the rest of them could still cross and bring back news and offerings to Héctor, so it wouldn’t be all that bad. What would he be doing, she wondered. Would he have already made it home? Would he even go there, knowing he’d be returning to an empty house? All alone?

Oh.

Imelda stopped, staring wide-eyed at their home just up ahead. Already she could laughter and music from within. Something choked within her, a familiar, wrenching pain that screamed that she had made a terrible mistake.  
  
_Good,_ Héctor had said. _At least she’s not alone._  
   
Héctor had understood. He knew what it was to be alone, especially on that day.  
   
_I’ve faced this before._  
   
How many years did he spend alone? Wishing to just be with his family? And she had _left him_.  
   
“Mamá?”  
   
Imelda blinked and saw Coco had stopped ahead, watching her curiously.  
   
“I’m going back,” Imelda said quickly, her mind still reeling and already halfway home, even as her feet stayed there on the wide familiar street.  
   
Coco smiled, and walked back to her. “I’ll tell the rest. Go on.”  
   
Imelda nodded, unable to help her smile or the burst of pride. With one last glance at her home—not thinking about how she would not see it for another year—she turned around and walked quickly. This, now, felt right, as if she had been moving against a current and now the wind was in her sails, leading her home.  
   
She hurried over the bridge, moving against the tide of people all going to see their families, a torrent of thoughts swirling in her mind. How much time had already passed? Could he have made it home by then? What if she went and he wasn’t there?  
   
A terrible cold seized her at that thought and she walked faster, holding her skirts a little higher as her boots kicked up the bright marigold petals. He _had_ to be there. He was fine, she reminded herself, not thinking about how and why he couldn’t cross. He wasn’t going to disappear.  
   
He _had_ to be fine.  
   
There was a line to re-enter the Land of the Dead, and Imelda had to repress herself from swearing aloud, or pulling off her boot and insisting she be allowed through. But no, she couldn’t do that again. And so she stood through that unbearable line, tapping her foot and glaring at all of the offerings that people were declaring, one by one. She ignored the piteous looks she got, returning empty-handed, and likewise ignored the soft whispers.  
   
As soon as she was through she hurried through the cobbled streets, along the familiar path that she had taken to and from every year.  
   
He _had_ to be there.  
   
No matter how many times she repeated it in her mind, it couldn’t stop the trembling in her hands.

The house was cold and dark when she approached, the key trembling in the lock and then the door quietly creaked open, and she held her breath. A faint light came from the other room, her boots quiet on the wood floors.

He was there.   
   
He stood in the middle of the room as if wondering what he should do, looking small and lost, his head bowed until he looked up, blinking at her sudden arrival.  
   
“Imelda?”  
   
She rushed forward and threw herself against him, holding him so tight it almost hurt, but she didn’t let go. He was there. He was still there, thank God.  
   
“Hey, hey, what happened?” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. “Imelda?”  
   
She couldn’t speak yet, but just held him and closed her eyes tight, overwhelmed with the sense of him.  
   
She missed him. She had _missed_ him. How had she forgotten that?  
   
With a deep breath, with the safe knowledge that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wasn’t alone again, she pulled back, just a little.  
   
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up. “I shouldn’t have left you.”  
   
“What? I told you it was okay,” Héctor said, confusion clear in his face. “I… you should go back, there’s still time to cross over and see Miguel and the rest of them. You should be with your family.”  
   
“I am with my family,” she said, gazing into his eyes and saw the almost-hidden shock at those words. Then his face softened, his eyes too bright, and he bent to kiss her and she leaned up on her toes to meet him. He felt so sure and strong, and she felt so safe and loved in his arms.  
   
She _missed_ him.  
   
She loved him. So much it ached. Eventually they slipped apart, and she was gazing up into his eyes, too full of emotion and love for her to handle.  
   
“Well,” Imelda said briskly, pulling away and straightening her dress before the affair devolved to anything more cheesy. This was not a telenovela, after all. “No reason not to make use of our time together.”  
   
Héctor blinked at her, making a crooked face that meant he was thinking. And then something clicked. “Ohhh…” he said, giving her a knowing grin. “I see what you’re getting at. The house is quiet and our bedroom is open…” He winked.  
   
“Not that!” she said quickly,  
   
His flirty grin fell. “Oh.”  
   
“I mean we should, uh…” She cast her gaze about, and looked towards the kitchen. “Come. We’ll make some food for when everyone comes back.”  
   
“Good idea!” Héctor said as they entered, quickly turning on the kitchen light. “How about we make _pan de muertos_?”  
   
“No,” Imelda said scornfully, waving a hand. “The others will come home with more of that than we’ll know what to do with.”  
   
“Oh, right, right.” Héctor propped his arm and stroked his chin, gazing about. “And the _mole_ is already made, so no on that. Hmm… oh!” He snapped his fingers and looked eagerly at her. “How about soup?”  
   
They decided to make _pozole rojo_ , a rich almost-stew that would be perfect after a long night out in the cold. Together they began pulling out ingredients—tomatoes and gajillo chiles, onions and hominy, and off to the side they set a pile of garnishes for later in the night. Héctor listened carefully to Imelda’s instructions, and for a few minutes they worked in a comfortable pace, gathering and chopping.  
   
It was all going well, but Imelda was too busy cooking the tomatoes and chiles to realize Héctor had vanished.  
   
“Héctor?”  
   
“Yep!” he called out, coming in from the main room and holding the family radio, the long cord looped in his hand. “I thought… some music might be nice?"  
   
“None of that new stuff, though,” she said, turning back to her cooking.  
   
Héctor fussed with the channels, flickering through them until he settled on one playing a mellow song that was vaguely familiar, and she found herself nodding along to the rhythm.  
   
It was nice, having music again.  
   
The song ended, a new one began, and Héctor went back and fussed with it once more, not very focused on his prep work for the soup. The little radio whined and blipped, channel by channel, and then a clear song rang out.  
   
“Stop, I like this one,” Imelda said, the words slipping out before she had a chance to think it over. The music then came a little louder, an upbeat song that Héctor and her had danced to in a plaza months earlier, a sweet, cheerful piece that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. Héctor straightened, and already his foot was tapping, unsurprising.  
   
Héctor had kept pace with music and dance through his afterlife, to an almost astonishing degree (although she shouldn’t be too astonished, knowing him). In their short time together again, Héctor had delighted in teaching her all that she had missed. The cha cha and the mambo, the rhumba and Pasa Doble. Music suited him. It was good that he allowed himself to fall in love with it. Both of them.  
  
“Ahh… Imelda?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
He came to her side and made an elegant, almost exaggerated bow, extending his arm to her.  
   
“May I have this dance?”  
   
Imelda cast a long sideways glance at him, yet was unable to hide her answering smile. They were not young kids anymore, and they should have been working on the meal at hand, and yet she took his hand and let herself be pulled along.  
   
They took to the kitchen floor as if it was a grand hall, and so they danced, a hand resting firm on her hip as they swung up and down the short length. He spun her with a flourish and a wide twirl of her skirt, and she felt a laugh bubble out of her without meaning to. She swung right back into him, and their feet returned to the familiar pattern.  
   
“Why are you looking at your feet?” Héctor asked, half teasing.  
   
Her eyes snapped up. “I’m not,” she said crisply, and he beamed because they both knew she was lying.  
   
Whenever she danced with Héctor, she found herself spending too much time staring down. But it was hard not to, because when she looked in his eyes she felt herself getting lost, falling too deep. It always left her a little dizzy, like the world had been swept out from beneath her feet. But even that was all right, she thought as Héctor pulled her closer, his arm steady around her. He wouldn’t let her fall.  
   
This wasn’t such a bad way to spend Dia de los Muertos, she thought. In fact, it was quite…  
   
“Ah!” Imelda shouted, lurching away from him and making him also jump and spin around, staring at the doorway.  
   
“Coco!” he said loudly, brushing down his vest and acting as if their daughter hadn’t just stumbled on them dancing around the kitchen like love-struck teenagers.  
   
“I seem to be interrupting,” she said, a cheeky grin on her face that said so much that she was Héctor’s daughter. “I can come back—“  
   
“No, no, no,” Héctor said, striding forward and pulling her into the warmth and light of the room. “No, it’s fine. We were just uh... cooking.”  
   
“We’re making _pozole_ ,” Imelda confirmed, nodding and remembering that she was supposed to have been watching the chicken.  
   
“Why are you back so soon,” Héctor asked, concern clear in his voice. “Coco, you should be on the other side still.”  
   
“Don’t worry,” she said, brushing off his words. “I saw Elena again, and dear Enrique and Luisa. Miguel still dotes on his little sister.”  
   
“Miguel’s good?” Héctor asked breathlessly.  
   
“Do you know why Héctor couldn’t cross?” Imelda said, stepping away from the food to listen. “Our photo was up, wasn’t it?”  
   
“Miguel is great,” she said, calm despite their eagerness. “He’s grown taller, he looks almost like a real man. Your photo was up. I saw it.”  
   
“Then...?”  
   
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I think perhaps someone took it down earlier. Just…. bad timing.”  
   
“But it was up,” Héctor said, relieved all the same. “They still remember me.”  
   
“Of course they do. Miguel could never forget you. He also left you… this.” From within her shawl she pulled out a letter with ‘Papá Héctor’ on the front in Miguel’s cleanest handwriting.  
   
Héctor tenderly took it, studying the letter, and let out a deep, comforted sigh. “He’s an amazing kid.”  
   
“He is,” Coco agreed, and Imelda found herself watching her husband still.  
   
Then he shook his head, looking between them. “You both should be there. This is your one chance a year to see the rest of your family. You don’t need to stay here for me.”  
   
“We’re not going anywhere,” Imelda said.  
   
“Of course not. I also brought this,” Coco said, pulling out a napkin-wrapped something, unwrapping it to reveal a freshly-made _pan de muertos_. They split it up as the _pozole_ cooked in the background. Héctor pulled up the chair that always lingered in the corner of the kitchen—a fixture that had always been in their living home as well—and gestured for Coco to sit.  
   
Imelda nearly remarked that it should have been the other way around, that Coco should have been pulling up a chair for her papá, but it had become such a common occurrence, it didn’t bear repeating. Coco and Héctor both doted on each other, and their affection hadn’t faded since the first moment they had lain eyes on each other.  
   
Imelda should have been used to it by then, but it still brought a stunning warmth into her heart every time.  
   
“You know,” Héctor said as they leaned around the kitchen, eating the soft, ofrenda-fresh bread. “This reminds me of when Coco was three. No, no, wait… maybe you were two,” Héctor pondered aloud.  
   
Both Coco and Imelda straightened and watched him, as he apparently pulled forth a memory from so long ago. Héctor had become the keeper of the memories of their too-short time together. Coco had been so young when he had left, her memories were few and fleeting, sometimes more dream than memory. And for her… those early, kinder memories of her husband had largely been pushed out after his disappearance. Héctor, though, had kept them close and securing, polishing them over the years like brass until it shone.  
   
“No, yeah, you were two,” Héctor said tapping his cheek. “You said ‘no!’ a lot and were still teething a little. Right. So your Mamá…” Here Héctor nodded to Imelda, giving her a smile which she returned, curious what story this was. “She was in the kitchen nonstop getting ready for Dia de Muertos, and a big part of that was baking, of course.”  
   
“Did you help?” Coco asked, listening with rapt attention.  
   
“Nahh. Your Mamá controlled the kitchen, I just had to stay out of the way. You, though, loved to get underfoot and try to help. Therefore, that Dia de Muertos I was responsible for keeping _you_ out of the way.”  
   
“I think I remember this,” Imelda said slowly, crossing her arms and trying to look admonishing. It was difficult when Héctor looked at them with such tenderness.  
   
Héctor continued his story down a long, winding path with two separate tangents that lead nowhere, and they listened raptly with moments of laughter and some rolling of eyes. Mentally Imelda tucked the story away into her consciousness, to hold and examine later. One more memory to cherish.  
   
“Anyway, where was I going with this…” Héctor mused, looking at the bite-sized piece of sweet bread still in his hand. “Well, point is, your Mamá makes great _pan de muertos._ ”  
   
It was so very much not the point of his rambling that they all had to laugh.  
   
The radio, that had fallen into the background of her consciousness, suddenly grew louder as a new, quickstep song began to play. It was remarkable—amazing—how all three of them reacted to it, turning to face it like a hound catching a scent. Héctor’s foot began tapping, and then he stood and turned it up louder, filling the small space with the joyous beat.  
   
“ _Mija_ ,” Héctor said, turning to her with a bright grin, “You wouldn’t say no to a dance, would you?”  
   
How could she? Coco stood and went to him, and so they linked hands and began to merrily two-step around the kitchen, twirling in tight little circles and laughing.  
   
“Watch the stove!” Imelda cried as Héctor nearly swung her into a pot handle, and just barely avoided splattering hot soup everywhere. They stuttered, glancing back, and then kept going. Imelda stood guard by the simmering stew, stirring it a little before turning and just watching her husband and her daughter enjoying each other’s company. Not only that—seeing them enjoying music and dance again. Things that they had gone so long without, things that had once brought pain. Slowly, bit by bit by steady bit, the wounds of the past had healed and continued to soften.  
   
There in the warm little space of their home, her family once again together and happy… she never thought this would have been possible. Not with Héctor again. Her eyes lingered on him, the sheer joy and love shining there, and wished they could have had all this sooner, without a century’s hardship between them.  
   
But, she reminded herself, at least they had this. A second chance.  
   
There was the sound of the front door opening, and then multiple footsteps approaching.  
   
“Oh!” Rosita cried, coming into the strong light. “It looks like you’re having fun!”  
   
Both Héctor and Coco turned as one and raised their arms with matching cries of delight, as Julio, Victoria, and Rosita came in, all holding over-laden baskets with food, drink, and gifts. Soon the small kitchen was packed, everyone perching on tables or chairs or leaning and cradling bowls of steaming soup.

Then Imelda looked around, and realized Héctor was missing.

“I’m gong to put a bell on him,” she muttered, peering out into the hallway. He could be quiet when he wanted to be, and every time he seemingly vanished, her phantom heart would stutter, and a terror would rush through her.  
   
Crossing the room, she looked outside the back door and there she saw him in the light of the window, half in shadow.  
   
“Héctor?”  
   
“Huh?” He looked up at her, blinking owlishly, and she thought that if they had been alive, he might have been crying. “Ahh… sorry, Imelda. Just needed a moment.” He gave a little laugh and a shrug.  
   
“Are you okay?”  
   
“Fine, yeah… good. Great, actually.” It was then she saw the paper in his hand, the letter Miguel had left on the ofrenda. “Miguel’s an amazing kid,” he said, smiling at it.  
   
Imelda came closer, close enough to see faint words on the paper.  
   
_I’m so proud to have you as my great-great-grandfather…_  
   
“Oh, look at this,” Héctor said, showing her a glossy modern photograph, showing Miguel and his whole family in mariachi outfits and each holding an instrument, all smiling at the camera. “He really has gotten bigger, I think he might be trying to grow a beard. And see little Socorro? They all look so happy.”  
   
Imelda looked into his face, and found it hard to read.  
   
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “You should have been able to see them, too…”  
   
“Ay, ay, Imelda.” He shook his head, smiling all the same. “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize, not for this. I’m just happy. He really brought music back to the family.”  
   
Imelda leaned against him, steady and comforting. Her fingers twitched, and then she took his hand, brought it up, and gently kissed his knuckles, a quick brush of bone on bone. She glanced over and saw amazement flash across his face.  
  
Then he was touching her cheek and kissing her, softly.  
   
“We’ve got a pretty amazing family,” Héctor said, settling an arm over her shoulder and pulling her close.  
   
“Yes,” she agreed. “We do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may have procrastinated on this. A bit.  
> Written for the Coco Loco's Fluff-Off. Prompt: May I have this dance?
> 
> Pozole Rojo [Recipe](https://meander.co.nz/recipes/oaxaca-pozole-rojo-soup/)
> 
> Coincidentally, it's a popular food eaten at New Year's Eve. Good timing all around.
> 
> Happy New Year's!!


End file.
